


|that's the way it is|(rdr2 alternate universe)

by CrimsonFandomTrash



Series: Hawyee (RDRII Stuff) [4]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arthur Morgan deserved better, Canonical Character Death, Dutch redemption, Existentialism, F/M, Families of Choice, Gen, Grief/Mourning, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hurts So Good, Kinda, Not A Fix-It, Sad, Sad with a Happy Ending, So did everyone else who died, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Sorry that I'm posting this at such a... Horrible point in time in the world, Spirit Animals, Tears, Terminal Illnesses, The sad rdr2 fic we all probably need, This idea been rollin around my head like a marble in a tin can for some time now, except micah, he can go fuck himself, kinda happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:14:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23582923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonFandomTrash/pseuds/CrimsonFandomTrash
Summary: ⚠️⚠️⚠️SPOILERS AHEAD! DON'T READ UNLESS YOU'VE FINISHED UP TO AT LEAST CHAPTER 6 OF RED DEAD REDEMPTION II.⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️In which Arthur still succombs to his Tuberculosis, but peacefully, being cared for and surrounded by the people closest to him.Whoops, I had four planned chapters but it turned into five ヾ( ﾟ∀ﾟ)ﾉﾞwas supposed to a short fic too lmao
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan, John Marston & Arthur Morgan, John Marston & Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Mary Gillis Linton/Arthur Morgan
Series: Hawyee (RDRII Stuff) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1477571
Comments: 50
Kudos: 134





	1. what's the meaning of the scar, if we don't learn how to heal?

**Author's Note:**

> Some things to note before you read; sorry that it's so long, it's all mostly important, I swear. 
> 
> This is an AU where no one in the gang (save for Davey, Mac and Jenny) is dead. 
> 
> * Arthur still has TB. Obviously.
> 
> * Sean got away with nothing more than a bullet to the arm in the mission 'A Short Walk in a Pretty Town'. Basically, whichever Grey shot at him had bad aim and didn't shoot him in the head. 
> 
> * Jack doesn't get kidnapped by the Braithwaites, the gang moves to Shady Belle and works in Saint Denis just because they had to leave Clemen's Point before the Pinkertons came back. 
> 
> * Kieran never left camp on his own, and thusly wasn't kidnapped or beheaded by the O'Driscolls in the mission 'Horsemen, Apocalypses'. Basically, that mission no longer exists in this AU. 
> 
> * Hosea managed to escape the law in 'Banking, The Old American Art', as did Abigail, and they both separately catch up with those at Shady Belle before Sadie moves everyone to Lagras. 
> 
> * Lenny didn't get shot on the roof during that same mission, he ends up going to Guarma with Dutch, Bill, Micah, Arthur, and Javier. Charles still causes a distraction for them, and finds the gang in Lagras by using his keen tracking skills. 
> 
> * John still gets arrested, Hosea helps Sadie and Arthur get him out. 
> 
> * Micah still manipulates Dutch, even with Hosea there. 
> 
> * Some people still end up leaving. Molly doesn't claim to be a rat when Uncle brings her back from Saint Denis, she just yells at Dutch, packs her stuff and leaves. Mary-Beth, Karen, Uncle, Reverend Swanson, and Pearson also leave, like in the game. Trelawney still goes with Arthur's blessing. Strauss still gets kicked out by Arthur after finishing the final 'Money Lending and Other Sins' missions in Chapter 6.
> 
> * John stops Micah from killing Cain the dog. Cuz let's be real here, Micah killed Cain. There's no other logical explanation for his disappearance. 
> 
> * After helping the natives in Wapiti move, Charles comes back to the gang to help Arthur and John as much as possible with damage control. 
> 
> * John doesn't get shot, nor left behind during that last train robbery, but Abigail still gets kidnapped by Pinkertons. Arthur still rescues her with Sadie, plus John cuz he's there. Arthur, Sadie, Tilly, Abigail, John and Jack ride back to Beaver Hollow together after they catch up with Tilly and Jack at Copperhead Landing. 
> 
> * Dutch believes Arthur when he comes back and reveals Micah to be the true traitor. Micah doesn't kill Miss Grimshaw, and he runs off as the Pinkertons show up before they can do anything about him. This fic-let picks up after the battle with them at Beaver Hollow. 
> 
> I wrote this fic-let because I was frustrated with the ending. I went into the game knowing Arthur was likely to die, because it happens to most of my favorite video game characters, but when he actually died I was pissed. I couldn't believe Dutch would listen to Micah over Arthur, would leave his friend and surrogate son of over twenty years to die alone on a mountain. He should have shot Micah then and there and dragged Arthur off the mountain with him. 
> 
> So, yeah, I didn't want Arthur to die alone on a mountain. So have a story where he dies being taken care of, surrounded by those he loves.

An eerie quiet falls around the sixteen of them as the smell of gunpowder wafts through the air at Beaver Hollow. Several long moments that feel like years of nothing passes, with no yells from angry Pinkertons, or gunshots, Arthur and John finally peeking up from the crate they'd been behind for cover, as Dutch's voice breaks through the silence. "Is everyone alright?"

"Seems like it," Hosea confirms, taking a headcount. Looking around, Arthur notices there's someone missing. 

"Where the Hell did that snake run off to?" He asks angrily to no one in particular. Good thing, too, because no one had an answer. 

"Who knows, who cares?" Dutch replies. "It doesn't matter, we gotta get out of here before more of 'em show up; everyone, start packin'!"

Wordlessly, everyone obeys, scrambling to get everything they own into the wagons and everyone's respective saddlebags. As Arthur goes to pack his own stuff, Dutch grabs him by the shoulder. "Hold up there, son, what are you doin'?"

"Packing my stuff?" Arthur says, more of a statement than a question despite how it comes out. 

"I'll have someone else handle that," Dutch assures him. "You should sit down, get some rest."

Arthur absolutely hates this. Ever since they found out he was sick, he'd been treated differently. As though he were frail as porcelain-like anything could break him. More than that, though, he hates how that's what it's starting to feel like, too. Even now, not doing much of anything, he's struggling to breathe, his lungs rattling in his chest, the now-familiar ache residing there permanently. 

So, he doesn't argue with Dutch. 

~~~~~~~~~~

In separate groups as to not look suspicious, the Van der Linde Gang rides through the night to the spot they're gonna use for camp this time around. Hosea had found a few really nice places recently when traveling solo and had kept them in mind in case the shit hit the fan again- which, it did.

Arthur and John rode alongside one another, following behind their surrogate fathers, with Abigail behind them. No one was really speaking up, trying to remain inconspicuous, and not cause such a fuss this late. 

Arthur checks his pocket watch again to see that it's nearly three in the morning. Their group consists of Dutch, Hosea, John, himself, Abigail, Jack, and Cain. Jack and Cain were asleep in the wagon that Abigail was driving, and that factor alone inspired the usually rowdy bunch to ride without uttering so many words to even qualify as a short conversation. 

And then there was the proverbial elephant in the equally proverbial room. Arthur was the elephant. Or, rather, his failing lungs were. Every now and then, there'd be that pain in his chest that'd steal his breath away for a few moments at least, and he'd cough and hack as he struggled for air. 

When he got the diagnosis, one part of him had brushed it off. As he walked out of the doctor's office, Arthur didn't so much focus on the fact that he was dying, so much as he did on the fact that he was sick. Mostly because he wasn't ready to deal with death looming over him yet. He still wasn't really, even with as realistic about it as he was. 

Either way, he'd written it off, to begin with, told himself he could just deal like he'd been dealing with really inconvenient- though not as horrifically- situations his entire life, and he would be able to take this in stride like he did everything else. He'd been sick plenty of times before, and it hadn't ever slowed him down, not significantly, anyway. He went on like he wasn't dying. 

It's so hard now these days to stay awake, and alert. To be steady, and unshaken, the way he usually was. Or, had been, anyway. And being on a silent ride, despite having the company of four other people, was not helping Arthur to ignore the fact that he was _dying_. 

This was not an enemy he could outgun. Hell, the way his hands had been shaking from the icy feeling that's beginning to seep into his bones, the sickness would probably have a better shot, anyway; assuming infections could hold a gun, to begin with. He couldn't punch this away, couldn't think it away, couldn't do much of anything but lay down and literally _die_. 

As if to add insult to injury, the illness picks that moment to stab him in the lungs, and he quickly covers his mouth with his sleeve before a hacking fit takes over, his fingers curling tightly into his steed's mane. He's fallen off his horse a couple times this way already. 

All eyes are on Arthur immediately, and even through his fit, Arthur can't miss the small, startled gasp Abigail makes from behind him and John. His eyes are beginning to sting and water up, and he's sure he looks even more like Hell than usual. Good thing it's dark. 

He pulls the reins and his horse goes off to the side of the road where they stop. The rest of the group halts, too, speechlessly staring at him, not knowing what to do. There weren't really anything any of them could do, anyway. 

Ever so slowly, the coughing finally stops, and he takes wheezy breaths in and out that burn his throat and chest. "I'm okay." He says only just above a whisper. 

"Are you sure, son? We can make camp here for the night if you need some rest." Hosea offers. Arthur shakes his head. 

"No, I'm okay." He says a little more resolutely, even though no one, himself included, is fooled. 

"Could we stop? It's the middle of the night." Abigail asks. It feels like she's trying to force Arthur into resting whether he wants to admit to needing it or not- that, or the stress of the past day, being kidnapped by Milton, having to flee another state once more, has drained her, and she needs to rest herself. Taking a look at John, Hosea, and Dutch, Arthur sees they all look pretty tired, too. And he surely doesn't have very much energy, either. 

"We ain't all that far away from the new camp from here," John speaks up, even as a yawn threatens to spill from him. 

"I think we could all use a few hours of sleep," Dutch says and starts heading away from the road down a small trail that leads into the forest. "Let's get off the main road and find somewhere to settle down for the night. I'm sure the others won't miss us too much if we show up a little late."

Thoughtlessly, they all follow after Dutch with the concept of lying down sounding better to Arthur every second he's still conscious. 

They find a spot a few minutes later. John works to get a fire going, their mentors setting up the tents. Abigail is already lying in the bed of the wagon next to Jack, dozing but not quite asleep. 

Arthur, meanwhile, is sitting in front of the firepit as John works, pulling his jacket around himself tighter as tremors run through him. Even the slightest breeze makes him feel like he just threw himself into a foot or two of snow, ass naked, front first.

"Hurry up, John," Arthur grumbles a bit at him, angrier at the shifting weather than he is at the younger man. Living outside as long as he has, Arthur can smell the changing season on the wind like second nature. Autumn's coming soon. He won't be around to see it, he knows he'll only live long enough to experience the last glimpses of this seemingly endless summer.

"I'm tryin'." John replies, and where there'd usually be a bite behind his remark like there always was whenever Arthur would boss him around, a snide, unsaid, 'you see me doing it, don't you?', instead, there's something else. John's gaze lingers for a moment on Arthur's shaking, huddled form, the recently too-big jacket Arthur's pulling around himself, then he gets back to work on the fire with a bit more urgency. 

Thankfully, the fire soon roars to life, and it provides at least a small amount of comfort for Arthur, despite the fact that it's small, as to not draw attention their way. Which, being comfortable in and of itself isn't something he's very familiar with anymore. It's been a bit under two months since he, Dutch, Bill, Micah, Lenny, and Javier had gotten off of Guarma, and he'd been diagnosed only a short day or two after that. 

Arthur already hadn't felt very well after getting kidnapped by Colm. He had figured it to be the fault of the gunshot wound he sustained, but as that got better, and his malaise did not… 

Well, here he was. 

Dutch and Hosea finish setting up the tents, and the four men sit around the campfire, John next to Arthur, Dutch and Hosea across from them. "What a goddamn day," Dutch says through an exasperated sigh. 

"Ya think everyone else made it to the new spot alright?" John asks quietly, trying to keep his voice down for Jack and Abigail, the latter of whom Arthur could hear snoring now. She must have been really tired. 

"I sure hope so." Dutch replies. Their youngest mentor then takes his fedora off, sets it in his lap, and Arthur can feel his, John's, and Hosea's eyes on him. "Are you okay, Arthur...?"

"I'm fine," Arthur answers though it's far from the truth. Even sitting in front of a fire, with his jacket drawn around him, he's still cold. He's sure none of the three other men fail to notice the way his body trembles uncontrollably. Arthur sure as shit notices. 

Hosea stands to his feet and goes over to the wagon, reaching over Abigail and Jack carefully to grab one of their extra blankets. Then, he walks over to Arthur and drapes the blanket around him. "There ya go, son."

"Thank you," Arthur says to the older man, despite wishing everyone would stop treating him as though he were already at death's door. If the way he was feeling was indicative of anything, Arthur reckoned he had at least another week. Maybe two, if he took it easy enough. Either way, he wasn't there just yet. 

Hosea sits back down next to Dutch across from him and John at the fire as Arthur pulls the blanket around himself tighter. "So… What's the plan?" John asks. "When we get to the new camp, I mean."

"I ain't got a plan just yet." Dutch answers. "I suppose we'll have to head north, but where north, is beyond me at this time."

"I don't know if that's the best idea." Hosea chimes in. 

"It ain't." Arthur agrees. "This whole thing is over. Continuing on is just gonna get everyone killed."

"What do you mean, 'this whole thing is over'?" Dutch then asks, seeming a bit perturbed. 

"I mean, that you'd be a goddamn fool to think keepin' the gang together is a good idea after all we've been through the past few months," Arthur replies. Dutch seems to bristle a bit, opening his mouth to retaliate, but Arthur cuts him off. "It's over. The world ain't no place for people like us anymore. After what happened at Beaver Hollow earlier, it's gonna take a few days, maybe a week or more if we're lucky for the Pinkertons to regroup, but once they do, they're gonna be right back on our tails again. And they ain't gonna stop til we're all dead."

"I have to agree with him," Hosea speaks up. Dutch looks a bit taken aback by that, too. "Let's face it, Dutch, he's right. The world is changing, and it's changing in such a way that our lifestyle puts us even more in jeopardy than ever before. We had a good run, but there's no point in pretending. Splitting up and trying to lead normal, honest existences is the only way any of us are gonna get outta this alive."

"I agree, too." John pitches in. "I mean, they chased us from West Elizabeth to New Hanover, to Lemoyne, back to New Hanover again. And they ain't ever had too much trouble finding us."

"That was when there were more of us," Dutch argues. "We don't have Mary-Beth, Karen, Trelawney, Uncle, Strauss, Miss O'Shea, Reverend Swanson, Pearson, or that damn rat, Mr. Bell anymore. That's nine whole people. There's only fifteen of us anymore- sixteen if you count the dog."

"Doesn't change the fact that we always been bad at lying low, even when it was just us four, Miss Grimshaw, Bessie, and Annabel," John argues right back, still quietly due to Abigail and Jack sleeping only a few feet away. Dutch's face falls the same way it does whenever Annabel is mentioned; same for Hosea with Bessie. "We gotta split, and we gotta stop. We don't even have our ideals left to separate us from the other gangs anymore. And we was still bein' hunted even when we did."

"Why are y'all giving up so easily?" Dutch chastises as he wears a heavy frown. "I thought I'd taught you boys better than to be quitters."

"Well, I guess I just don't want my wife and kid or I to die, Dutch." John shoots back. 

"No one's gonna die, John, we're gonna be fine." 

As though to spite Dutch's argument, a few more coughs erupt from Arthur, leaving him wheezing once again as soon as it passes. 

"Mac, Davey, Jenny," Arthur says their fallen friends' names raggedly. "We lost them only a few months ago. That was our sign that everything was over for us, and we ignored it. We're lucky ain't no one died since."

"They're both right, Dutch," Hosea says softly, putting a hand on his partner in crime's shoulder with a sad look. Dutch shares the sentiment, and Arthur sees the way their younger mentor's eyes glass over from the light provided by flickering flames. "It's over. We tried, we failed, and we should stop trying before we're all killed." 

Dutch seems to sink into himself as the words of his dearest friend wash over him. Arthur can also see the realization Dutch comes to, that they're right, and continuing on was nothing more than a recipe for further unwanted disasters. 

"I…" Dutch pauses, uncertain of his next words it seems. He sighs shakily. "I am… So, so, sorry that I got us into this mess…" His voice wavers as he looks at Hosea, then John, then Arthur. "If I'd have listened to any of you, we wouldn't be dealing with this right now. I wouldn't have tried to rob that damn boat, wouldn't have let Micah into the gang, and then…"

_Arthur wouldn't be sick and dying_ , went unsaid, mainly because the information was still so new to them that they were even less ready to deal with it than Arthur himself was. 

"You couldn't have known this would all happen," Hosea reassures Dutch as his hand squeezes the other man's shoulder to comfort him. "And, anyway, I'd say most of us are at fault. We all could have been a bit more active in trying to keep things afloat."

"I'd say it was inevitable, in some way or another," Arthur says, and they all direct their attention to him. "Like I said, world don't want people like us anymore." He continues, another cough or two escaping him. 

"... You're right..." Dutch concedes. "God, of course, you're right. I've been such a damn fool." He adds, holding his head in his hands. 

Hosea pats Dutch's back a few times. "There's no use dwelling on it. Not tonight, anyway. We need some rest after all this."

Dutch nods a little, lifting his head. Hosea and John stand at the same time, while their remorseful leader and dying left-hand man stay sat. Arthur looks up at John to find the younger man already looking down at him. "Goodnight Arthur, Dutch."

"Night, John," Arthur replies. "Night Hosea."

"Goodnight, son," Hosea says, giving Arthur a smile. "Sleep well, when you do"

"You, too."

"Goodnight, Dutch."

"Goodnight Hosea. John."

With that, the youngest and eldest men retire to their tents for the night. Arthur stands from the log he's sat on and sits next to Dutch where Hosea had been a few moments ago. The pair of them watch the crackling fire in front of them. 

"I'm sorry, Arthur," Dutch says quietly after a few moments of silence. 

"'S not your fault." 

"It really is, though." Dutch denies. Arthur can't find the heart to tell him again that it's not. 

"... Why'd you leave me?" He decides to ask after another moment. "At the oil factory, when we was 'helpin'' those natives. I was bein' pinned down, 'boutta get stabbed in the chest, and you just turned and left. Why?" He can't help the pain and betrayal in his voice as he asks that. 

Dutch shakes his head a little, still staring into the fire. "I don't quite know, son, I really don't. I have no excuse for the way I've treated you and the others these past few months." He shrugs, holding back a yawn. "Micah poisoned me against most of you. I guess I was too far gone to realize he was playing me for a fool."

"Did you know…?"

"Know what?"

"That I was dyin' already." Arthur answers. Dutch nods slightly. 

"I had an inkling, yeah." He replies. "Maybe that was part of it, too. Maybe a part of me thought it'd be better for you to go quickly, and fighting, rather than slowly, and miserably. Maybe I convinced myself that that's what you would've wanted."

"... Well. In any case… I forgive you."

"You shouldn't."

"Probably not." Arthur agrees easily. "But, despite my best efforts to the contrary, I've never been able to stay mad at you for very long."

"... Thank you, son." Dutch says, finally looking up from the flames. "As undeserving as I am of forgiveness, I appreciate it, anyway."

Arthur shrugs absently. "You're the one always goin' on about redemption. Maybe practice what ya preach, friend." Dutch looks at him with a sad, desperate expression. "You can make it up to me by makin' sure everyone else gets out. Save those as need savin', and all that."

His mentor nods resolutely. "I will, Arthur. You have my word."

Arthur nods back, before deciding he can't keep his eyes open very much longer. So, he stands once more. "G'night, Dutch. Get some sleep, then."

"Goodnight, son." Dutch replies. "Rest easy."

"I'll try." He says and then goes into his tent for the night. He doesn't bother to open his journal and make an entry or drawing before bed like he'd done routinely for the past twenty or so years- his hands are too unsteady. It's likely he won't get the chance to draw or write again. So, he lays down, pulling the blanket around him tighter before closing his eyes and falling into a dreamless slumber.


	2. should we ever be apart, then how does it feel?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the gang disbands peacefully, everyone says their goodbyes, and leaves. Or, most do, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's horse has neutral pronouns and no given name in this fic, so feel free to replace it in your head with your own horses. 
> 
> That was all I really had to say, please enjoy this chapter. I'm sorry for all the tears I'm causing xD

"Who goes there?!" Asks a familiar Irish voice as Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, John, Abigail, Jack and Cain make their way toward the new camp. 

"It's us!" Dutch calls out. Arthur hears Sean run off to tell the others that Dutch's group finally showed up;  _ real good job guarding the place, abandoning your post like that _ , he thinks sarcastically. 

The six of them, seven technically because of Cain, roll into camp, and it seems everyone's already set up. "Dutch!" Bill calls out to him. "We was wonderin' when y'all would show up!"

"We had to stop and make camp elsewhere last night." The leader explains simply. He, Hosea, John, and Arthur ride up to the hitching posts and unmount, Arthur, swaying a bit as he does, sudden dizziness taking over. 

"You alright there, Morgan?" Bill asks. 

"'M fine." Feels like he's gonna be telling that lie to a lot of people in the next few days. 

Jack and Cain hop out of the back of the wagon and run off to go find some mischief to get into, Abigail climbs down from the driver's seat, and the men hitch their steeds. Arthur gives his horse a sugar cube, an apple, a brushdown, and a few pats, then untacks the saddle. It's not likely he'll be going anywhere. 

"Should we break the news to everyone?" Hosea asks Dutch as they all start towards the rest of the gang- what's left of it, anyway- who are all sitting around the fire as though waiting for their leader to talk to them. 

"Now's as good a time as any," Dutch says with a disheartened sigh. Arthur, John, and Abigail find a spot to sit amongst their currently fellow gang members, while Hosea and Dutch make their way near the middle of the gathering. 

"Everyone, listen up," Hosea says, despite the fact, everybody already has their undivided attention on their leader and his right-hand man. 

"I have a difficult announcement to make," Dutch speaks up, and most of them tense in their seats. "Hosea, Arthur, John and I decided it'd be in everyone's best interest if we… Broke up the gang."

"What?!" Javier calls out. "Dutch, no, we can't do that! We'll be easy targets on our own, you've said it a million times!"

"I know what I said, but listen, son!" Dutch demands with a bit of a snap. Javier settles back down. "We lost Mac, Davey, and Jenny. Years ago, Annabel, and Bessie, and so many others along the way." He continues sadly. "We're about to lose Arthur here, soon." He adds, even more solemnly. Arthur can feel at least a dozen pairs of eyes on him, and he really wishes Dutch would have omitted that fact. "I seen too many people I care about die because of this way we live. I don't think I could take the heartache of seeing many more of you fall because of me."

"Go live honest lives," Hosea says, eyes on him now. "Change your names, go somewhere new, and start over. It's gonna be difficult for all of us, but it needs to be done. This is over for us."

"I can't believe we're all just gonna split up. After all we been through together?" Javier asks, standing. "Dutch, come on. Micah is gone. If he really was the one ratting us out, we shouldn't have too many other issues, right?"

"There ain't no freedom for no one in this country no more, son." Dutch replies, shrugging hopelessly. "There's a whole lot more of them than there is of us. And they ain't ever gonna stop chasin' us unless we give 'em a reason. I just wish I'd seen that sooner. A decade or more ago, maybe…" 

Javier plops back down where he was sitting. "It's over, just like that?"

"Yes, it is." Dutch answers. "So, I'd suggest you all figure out where you're going, what you're doing. Then pack, leave, and never speak of this again. Take as much time as you need, but you all have to go, and not look back." And then he pauses, before adding, "I wish you all the best of luck." Then he walks off, heading towards his tent. 

Javier seems to be the most upset throughout the day about it. He packs his stuff while sulking and mumbling to himself that he can't even go back to Mexico, and there's no way in Hell he's gonna make it out there on his own. Arthur sure hopes he, and everyone else, do make it. Then, this whole mess will have meant something. 

Except for Micah. If the bastard were here right now, Arthur would empty his pistol into the other man's face. The fact the son of a bitch is still out there sits sourly on his tongue. He hopes with everything still in him that Micah falls off a cliff, gets shot, or accomplishes what John hadn't and gets eaten by a wolf. 

Arthur is sitting on the edge of the cliff they're situated on, looking at the view, wishing he could draw it when he hears something behind him. He turns his head and is met by the sight of a shock of red hair. "Sean." He greets the other man simply. 

"Arthur." Sean greets back, his usual energy doused by something. Probably because he's talking to a practically dead man. The younger man walks over and sits next to him. "Quite a view we got up here."

"Mm." Arthur hums in reply. 

"Why ain'tcha drawin' it in your diary?" Sean lightly teases him. 

"Hand's been shakin' too much to write, much less draw," Arthur replies, not even bothering to correct him.  _ It's a journal, not a diary _ . He holds his hand out in front of him and tries to steady it for demonstration, and fails as he knew he would, dropping it back into his lap with the other before sighing. 

"Oh," Sean says awkwardly, shifting where he sits. "... You wanna talk about it?"

"Not particularly." Arthur shuts him down. "Enough about me. Where ya going, what ya doin' with your life now that this is done?"

"I ain't too sure just yet," Sean replies. "Might just go do somethin' stupid simple and work on a farm somewhere."

"Easy enough." Arthur agrees. "When ya leaving?"

"Soon." Sean answers. "Just wanted to make sure I got a chance to say bye."

A few very unwelcome coughs sputter from Arthur's lips, and he spits out the blood that's collected in his mouth, watching it fall towards the ground below them. "Probably a good idea. Ain't much of me left to say bye to, anymore."

Sean visibly cringes, and a part of Arthur feels a bit bad for being so darkly blunt with him; the other parts of him can't really, because, at the end of the day, it's not like Sean doesn't know what's going on. Arthur's sure the younger man has seen hundreds, thousands of dead people by now. 

How many had Arthur seen? … There wasn't a way to count that. 

"Sorry." He says anyway, because it's easy, and there ain't much else he can do at this point. 

"No, it's fine," Sean assures. Arthur only notices the small glance the red-head gives him from the corner of his sight. "... It must be real scary, huh…?" He asks carefully, not sounding sure if he were allowed to tread the ground he just put himself on. 

"'Scary' don't even  _ begin _ to cut it," Arthur answers honestly. 

"... I'm… Sorry, you have to go t'rough this, Arthur." Sean says sadly. "I've always looked up to ya."

"Well, now you have a chance to find a better role model."

"You're always way too harsh wit' yourself," Sean replies with a sigh. "You ain't nearly as bad a person as you seem ta think you are."

"... Well, thank you." Arthur says to him. "Don't really believe that m'self. But, thanks."

A moment of silence passes between them before Sean pulls himself to his feet. "I'd better get goin'. I don't know where I'm headed, so I may as well get an early start." He offers a hand to help Arthur to his feet as well, and the older man takes it, soon pulled up to his feet. Sean puts his hand on Arthur's shoulder and seems to hesitate for a moment before he pulls Arthur towards him and wraps his arms around him. "Goodbye, brother." The Irishman says. Arthur pats his back as he returns the hug, not usually one for physical affection as such, but knowing he'd never see Sean again… Well, even Arthur Morgan could be sentimental. 

"Goodbye, Sean," Arthur replies. "I hope you find what you're lookin' for out there."

"I hope you find some peace," Sean says. They pull away from each other, and Arthur puts a hand on Sean's shoulder as the red-head gives him a smile.

"Take it easy, Sean."

"You, too, Arthur."

With that, Arthur lets go of him, and Sean walks away. Arthur watches him say a quicker goodbye to a few of the others before he hops on Ennis' back and rides off. 

Arthur's attempting to eat lunch, keyword, 'attempting' when Bill strides up to him. "Morgan!"

"Williamson," Arthur replies back. 

"Wanted to say bye, before I leave."

"So, what are you gonna do?"

Bill shrugged a bit. "I ain't sure yet. Ain't ever done much more than outlawin', ain't sure I know how to do much else."

"Well, believe me, continuing on as an outlaw is just another way of beggin' to get yourself shot or hung." 

"I had a feeling you'd say somethin' like that," Bill says. "Well, anyway. Off I go. Bye, Arthur."

"Bye, Bill." 

Not nearly as heartfelt as the farewell he gave Sean, but he'd never been particularly close to Bill, and Bill had never been very close to him. He still watches his former brother in arms mount up Brown Jack and leave. 

Javier was next. He looks absolutely miserable as he approaches Arthur while the older man is sitting in his cot, cleaning his guns for no reason other than some task to take his mind off things. "Arthur."

"Javier."

"I… Wanted to apologize, amigo." He starts. "Micah really had me believing you and John were the rats. I snapped at you several times for no reason, and… I'm sorry."

"'S alright. I'd've done the same thing, in your place." Arthur replies. 

"That doesn't make it okay."

"No, it don't. But it's understandable."

The Spanish man shifts awkwardly where he stands, before he says, "I also wanted to let you know that I enjoyed working with you. You're a tough son of a bitch, compadré."

"Thank you, Javier. You're tough, too, friend. I hope you find a nice life out there."

"Thank you, Arthur," Javier replies. He puts a hand on Arthur's shoulder and he looks up from the gun he'd been cleaning. "Take it easy, Arthur."

"You too," Arthur says after a moment. 

"Goodbye, brother."

"Bye, Javier. Good luck."

Javier tips his sombrero at Arthur and then turns on his heel. Arthur watches him mount Boaz and leave. 

He's wandering around camp, looking for something to do that won't drain what little energy he has, when he spots the Marstons looking at a map. Well, Abigail and John, anyway. Jack is running around with Cain, blissfully unaware of what's going on. 

"Arthur!" John calls to him. "Can you come over here, please?"

With a nod, Arthur walks towards them. "What's goin' on?"

He reaches John and Abigail and looks down at the map. There's a spot circled on it. "We got a bit of an issue here."

"Well, what is it?"

"I'd like for Abigail and Jack to leave tonight, but all those extra horses we had around ran off during that fire-fight yesterday."

"Ain't you goin' with them?" Arthur asks, a bit confused as to why John would specify that he wants  _ Abigail and Jack _ to leave tonight. Not that  _ they _ were leaving tonight. 

"I'm gonna catch up with them, in a week or two, after…" John doesn't continue his sentence. Arthur already knows what he was gonna say; 'after you die'. "If you're makin' that face cuz you think I'm gonna run off on them again, then stop."

"Weren't that." Arthur clarifies vaguely, then puts all his thinking power on coming up with a solution as to a mount for Abigail and Jack. "... They can take my horse."

"What? Arthur?" Abigail finally speaks up. "You love that horse."

"That's right, I do," Arthur replies. Truth be told, he'd loved every horse he'd ever had. Charlie, and Boadecia, and this one he has now. "Which is why I want you to take 'em. I ain't goin' anywhere, anymore."

"Arthur-"

"Abigail." Arthur cuts her off. Her eyes are welling up with tears, and he puts his hands on her shoulders. She averts her gaze, never having been one to be vulnerable. "It'd mean a lot to me if you took my horse. I can't take care of 'em anymore. And I won't be needing 'em, cuz the next time I leave this camp, I'll be thrown over the back of someone else's."

"Oh, Arthur…" Abigail loses it then, starting to cry her eyes out. Arthur pulls her against him and wraps his arms around her tightly as she sobs into his chest. 

"'M sorry, Abigail." He says softly to her. He feels her fingers tighten into the fabric of his shirt, can feel the tears soaking through. 

"It ain't fair!" She declares. "God, Arthur, I'm gonna miss you…"

"I'll miss you, too, Abigail," Arthur replies back. Feeling that familiar tickle in his throat, he pulls away from her quickly and turns, bringing his sleeve up to his mouth as he hacks a few times, his lungs feeling like they're collapsing in on themselves. Her hand rests on his shoulder as he wheezes and coughs, spitting the blood in his mouth into the grass once he's done. When he turns back to her, she's still teary-eyed. Her eyes linger on his chest for a moment, and he's sure neither she nor John fail to hear the way his lungs rattle with every ragged breath he takes in. 

"What… Should we tell the boy?" She asks sadly, her eyes still puffy from crying, looking over to where Jack and Cain are running circles around a tree. Jack laughing and smiling, not a care in the world, blissfully unaware. 

"The truth, I guess." Arthur answers. "Gonna have to learn at some point that the world is a cruel, unforgiving place."

Abigail just nods, clearly upset about it, but obviously agreeing with him. 

Death is inevitable. Even if Arthur weren't dying right now, there'd be nothing to stop him from keeling over today, tomorrow. The day after that, next year, or ten years from now. He'd lived with that truth most of his life now. Anything could happen to anyone at any time. He supposes his current situation supports that fact. 

Abigail eventually decides to take Arthur up on the offer of taking his horse, under the reasoning of wanting to make sure she always had a piece of him. Arthur was more than fine with that. Truly, if she'd fallen for Arthur instead of John, he may have fallen for her right back. 

As it stands, though, he still cares about her a great deal. So, he empties his saddlebags, leaving all the horse provisions he has in there, taking nothing more than his personal effects. Then, he saddles his horse, now Abigail's and maybe later down the line Jack or John's, and then waits for the Marstons. 

John, Abigail, and Jack walk over, with Jack talking excitedly about a stick Cain had found- who follows shortly behind the boy- that looks like a letter L. When the small family reaches him, Arthur kneels down to Jack's height. 

"How you doin', kiddo?" He asks with a forced smile. 

"I'm good," Jack replies happily, rocking back and forth on his feet. "Where are we going, Uncle Arthur? Isn't this our home for now?"

Looking up at Abigail and John, the boy's father kneels to his son's height as well. "We're leaving, Jack. We're gonna go find a new place to live, and we're gonna stay there, for good. You're gonna go to school, have friends your own age, and never have to worry about runnin' again."

"Oh… Okay." Jack says, sounding a little disheartened, but still hopeful. "Is Uncle Arthur coming with us?"

Abigail turns away with a hand cupped over her mouth, though Jack misses it, his attention on John and Arthur. "No, son, I'm afraid he's not," John answers solemnly. "Uncle Arthur… He's real sick. He ain't gonna last much longer."

"... Oh…" Jack says, even softer. His smile is entirely gone. "He's… Gonna go away? Like Uncle Mac, and Davey, and Aunt Jenny...?"

Arthur nods a little. "'M afraid so, buddy…"

Jack's lips start quivering as tears pool in his eyes, his head dipping. Arthur immediately feels even more like shit than he already has been, and the sight of the usually so cheerful kid having to deal with a fact of life as dark as death… Well. 

Arthur Morgan's always been a hard man, but he's not unfeeling, obviously. And Jack reminds him a lot of Isaac. So to see the boy cry… 

Arthur starts crying, too. 

He pulls the boy in for a hug, and like his mother before him, his nephew cries into his chest, fingers tightening around the fabric of his shirt. "You're a real good kid, Jack," Arthur says to him, trying to keep the shakiness out of his voice to no avail. "I love you a whole lot. 'M really sorry I won't be around to see you grow up..."

"I lo-love you, t-too, uncle Arthur…" Jack sobs, nuzzling into Arthur's chest. Arthur can't help for the tears falling down his cheeks right now, and he's not so sure he cares much anymore. Screw it. He's allowed to cry. He's  _ dying _ , for Christ's sake. Dying, and miserable, and now he has to say goodbye to some of the people who mean the most in the world to him. And with saying goodbye came the grief of knowing it'd be the last time he saw them, the last time they saw him. 

After a few minutes of Jack crying, and Arthur rocking the boy gently as they hugged, Jack begrudgingly pulls away, face red, eyes puffy, tear marks running down his cheeks. Arthur's sure he doesn't look much better. He puts his hands on his nephew's shoulder to try and comfort him while Jack rubs at his eyes miserably. "You're a good kid." He says again. "You behave for your momma and papa, okay?"

Jack nods as he sniffles and whines. "O-okay, Uncle Arthur…"

"I know it hurts, kiddo. I've lost a lotta people, too." Arthur continues. His thoughts immediately drift to a decade or so ago, watching Bessie slowly wither away similarly to how he was now, sick, and miserable, and in constant pain. More than two decades ago, watching his own mother die. Even watching his father die, horrible man as he was, had inspired some level of grief. "You'll be okay. It's always gonna be horrible, I won't lie to ya about that, but you'll be okay."

Jack just nods, clearly not trusting his own voice, or not having much else to say. Arthur ruffles his hair and manages to get the kid to smile for only a moment before a pout takes its place again. 

John helps Abigail up onto Arthur's horse- or, what used to be Arthur's horse- and then Abigail helps Jack up, sitting the boy in front of her. Jack gives Arthur one of his toy soldiers before he's hauled up onto the horse, so he'd have a piece of them with him, too. It's nearly enough to make him cry again. "I'll catch up with you two, soon. I'm gonna stay behind with Uncle Arthur for a little while." John tells his son. "You be good for your momma."

"Yessir," Jack replies quietly. "What about Cain...?" He asks though it's clearly one of the further things from his mind. 

"I'll bring Cain with me when I leave, don't worry," John assures him. 

Arthur reaches in his satchel and pulls his money out, holding it out to Abigail. She makes a face. "Go on, take it." He says. "I don't need it no more."

Begrudgingly, Abigail takes the money. "Thank you, Arthur." She says with a sniffle, her own waterworks having restarted as soon as Jack's and his own had begun. "For everything you've done for us."

"Weren't nothin'." He dismisses. "Go live a good life. Y'all deserve it."

A few more farewells, before Abigail, Jack, and what used to be Arthur's horse, ride off. He feels like his legs are made of lead, knowing as soon as they disappear from sight, he'll never see them again. 

Sure enough, the trees soon obscure any view of them. Arthur feels a little empty inside. Well, more so than normal. 

"Probably better this way." He tells John, anyway. "They won't be in any danger if the Pinkertons show up again."

"Yeah." John agrees simply. 

By the end of the day, only Tilly, Lenny, and Kieran are yet to leave; Charles, Sadie, and Susan are staying, as are Hosea, John, and Dutch, obviously, and even more obviously, Arthur. He ain't leaving til they dig a hole for him somewhere. 

And then they won't be staying, either. Hosea and Dutch plan on running off together, Charles says he's going to Canada, Sadie says she'll 'figure it out along the way, she can handle herself', and Susan will likely end up going with John and Cain. 

And the only reason the six of them are staying is because Arthur's not dead yet.

He sure wishes he could have gone with the Marstons, but he knows it ain't a good idea. It's already gonna be hard enough for John to start a new life, with the price on his head, and Arthur's is at least double that. And he sure as shit can't shoot very well anymore with his shaky hands, so he wouldn't even be able to help John protect Abigail and Jack, should some bounty hunter decide that this was the week they were gonna bring in the notorious Arthur Morgan. Not like they'd have any other chance than this week.

Needless to say, he's got a lot of emotions about all this that he still hasn't fully addressed. 

He's trying to sort through at least some of them as he stares at his dinner, a bit of rabbit Charles had brought in. It reminds Arthur a lot of long before Pearson joined and they always ate game like this, cooked over the fire on their hunting knives. He still does, or, did, that whenever he was out on his own, but it wasn't long after Susan joined that they started using plates and utensils like 'civilized human beings instead of feral cavemen'. 

Most of what he's trying to work through is a lot of those first few years with Hosea and Dutch. A lot of it is his relationship with Mary. The loss of Bessie. Eliza. Isaac. His mother. His father. His horses. Copper. 

He continues to stare at the piece of rabbit he's got for dinner, along with some corn and carrots. He knows he should be hungry because he hasn't eaten since… Morning time yesterday? And he knows he didn't eat a lot; a few crackers and a half a biscuit. But the sickness has stolen his appetite entirely. He hasn't been able to eat right since a few weeks after he got kidnapped by Colm. It only got worse as the illness did. 

And the weight loss shows visibly. His shoulders have narrowed, along with his hips. When he changes his clothes or takes a bath, he can practically see his ribs. He's had to adjust his belts several times, tighter and tighter as things went on to keep his pants and his guns up. His muscles are practically non-existent. His face looks gaunt and bony. His clothes hang off of him everywhere, from head to toe. The only thing that hasn't changed is his boots. 

He manages to get a few bites down before retiring to his tent for the night. 

Tired as he is, even though he hasn't done much, Arthur doesn't go to sleep right away. He pulls the toy soldier Jack gave him out of his pocket and puts it on the table next to his cot, with the picture of his mother, and the flower he has in a jar. 

He picks the photo of his mother up, looking at it sadly like he'd done a thousand times before. If there's an afterlife, and it doesn't judge you based on your actions, then she'll be there, along with Bessie, Annabel, Eliza, Isaac, and his father; the latter of whom he wouldn't be very happy to see, but what's the man gonna do? He's dead. Arthur'll be dead. And this is all assuming there  _ is _ an afterlife, anyway. 

He puts it back down and shifts his attention to the wall next to him. The picture of Copper and his father's mug shot from the first time he was arrested. A horseshoe from Charlie. The picture of him, Hosea, and Dutch, when Arthur was only eighteen. 

Then, there's only one more picture to look at. Mary. 

As soon as he remembers her, his brain goes all fuzzy. She has no idea Arthur's dying. He won't get to say goodbye to her. The thought of that makes his stomach churn. Mary had been the only woman Arthur had ever been  _ in love _ with. They'd known each other for damn near a decade and a half, been through so much together, and would have gotten married if her daddy didn't get in the way. Or if Arthur had changed. 

She sent him a letter a few weeks ago saying she couldn't wait for him anymore. She didn't know he'd gotten stranded on a tropical island somewhere near Cuba, and she has  _ no idea he's dying _ . 

Once again to spite him, a barrage of violent coughs billow from him, his mouth filling with blood for what feels like the hundredth time today. He spits it on the ground, and pulls the letter out, looking at the return address, determines it's about a quarter day's ride from here. And he doesn't have a horse anymore. 

Not that it matters. He was barely able to stay upright last night or this morning. And it ain't likely Susan, Hosea, or Dutch would be letting him go anywhere anymore, even if he did have a steed. 

Something in him is telling him he needs to see her again, just one last time. He's not sure why. Closure, maybe. Maybe just the comfort of having another familiar face, now that so many constants in his life have left and he's facing death. He ain't sure. 

Either way, Arthur's thankful when John comes strolling over. "Arthur." The younger man greets him.

"John." Arthur greets back, feeling bad for how John's face pulls a little at the gravelly quality of Arthur's voice. 

"You okay over here?" John asks. Arthur decides to be honest. 

"No, not really." He answers, then continues, "I need a favor, John. If you would."

"Of course, Arthur, anything," John replies. Arthur hands him the envelope. 

"I need you to find Mary for me, please." He asks of John, making sure to translate just how much it means to him in his tone. "I wanna see her, before…"  _ I die _ . 

John looks at the envelop, then back up at Arthur, and he nods resolutely. "Okay."

"Thank you, John…" Arthur replies quietly. 

"You're welcome, Arthur," John says in turn. "You should get some rest, friend. You look exhausted."

"I am," Arthur says honestly. "G'night, John."

"Goodnight, Arthur. Rest easy." His brother says sincerely, lingering around for only a moment before he walks off. 

Arthur turns his lantern off and lays down, attempting as best he can to cocoon himself in his blanket to try and keep warm more easily. It doesn't work very well. The ice-cold feeling has practically made its way into his very being by now. 

He tries not to dwell on it, he's well used to being cold by now. Arthur gets as comfortable as he can, and soon falls asleep, lungs rattling painfully in his chest… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you liked this chapter, it really helps me with my writing to know there's people out there enjoying it. 
> 
> Have a nice day, and stay safe <3


	3. may the wind be at your back, good fortune touch your hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Closer to the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy the chapter, sorry again for all the tears!

Arthur awakes to nearly choking on his own blood. He immediately shoots up as coughs rip through him, his lungs feeling like they're being stabbed a hundred times with every hack and wheeze. 

He hears someone run over to his tent. "Arthur!" It's Hosea. He sits on Arthur's cot next to him, unsure of what to do. There isn't anything he can really do. Arthur is thankful for him being there, anyways. 

Eventually, agonizingly slowly, Arthur stops hacking his lungs out. He spits the blood in his mouth into the grass frustratedly, wishing he knew again what it was like  _ not _ to have the taste of iron in his mouth all day. Hosea glances down at the blood with an anguished look. Arthur wheezes, his lungs burning. 

"I'll go make some tea for you, son," Hosea says as he rubs Arthur's back comfortingly. "To help your throat."

"Thank you." Arthur breathes out. Hosea gives his back a few gentle pats and a small smile that doesn't reach his eyes before leaving the tent to go make tea. 

Arthur wipes the sweat from his brow, then lays back down, staring up at the canvas ceiling of his tent. He feels even worse than he did yesterday, or the day before that, and he has no idea how that's possible when he's been feeling like horse shit that somebody stepped in for over a month now. 

He closes his eyes, listening to the sounds outside. Birds chirping the way they did in the very early morning, the occasional chitter of a squirrel. Wind in the tree leaves he won't be able to see change colors again with the season. The crackling of their campfire. Soft, partially distant voices, undoubtedly Hosea and Dutch's; he couldn't hear what they were saying, but he recognizes their voices anywhere, and though he was sure whatever conversation they were having wasn't pleasant, he's grateful for their presence, and the comfort hearing them brings. 

Riding to Beaver Hollow with Jack, Abigail, John, Tilly, and Sadie the other day, Arthur was fully prepared for that ride to be his last. To walk up to Dutch, reveal Micah for the traitor he was, and immediately get shut down. For Dutch not to listen to him, to still take Micah's side like he had done since they got back from Guarma, it feels like. 

And then the Pinkertons showed up, and Arthur was sure he'd either get a bullet to the head, or everyone would scatter, and he would run until he physically couldn't anymore. 

He doesn't get to finish that train of thought, and he's glad. He hears Hosea walking towards his tent and he sits back up, rubbing at his face tiredly before accepting the mug of tea Hosea holds out to him. "Here you go, son," Hosea says softly. 

"Thank you, Hosea." Arthur thanks him tiredly. He takes a few sips from the mug, and though it does little to help him, the smooth, warm, sweet liquid provides at least a small amount of relief for his torn up throat. 

"Come join us by the fire, then," Hosea says as he ruffles Arthur's hair in that way he and Dutch would when he was still a boy. Arthur gives the older man a small smile, and his surrogate father smiles back sadly before turning on his heel and going back towards the fire. 

Arthur looks again at the picture of Mary above his cot before he drags himself out of his tent and into the sunlight. The warmth of its rays help his cold bones, and the campfire helps a little, too, when he gets over there, sitting across from Hosea and Dutch. "Mornin', fellers."

"Morning, Arthur." Dutch replies. "How ya feelin' today, son…?"

"'Bout how I look," Arthur answers honestly. "Where's Marston?"

"John left hours ago, few hours before sunrise," Hosea says. "Said he was gonna go track down Miss Gillis for you."

"Mrs. Linton." Arthur corrects. "She had been married."

"Had been?" Dutch asks. 

"Yeah. He died." A few coughs sputter from him. "Pneumonia."

"Bad business…" Dutch says, surely spotting, along with Hosea, the few droplets of blood Arthur can feel decorating his chin and lips.

"Sure." He agrees. He takes another few sips of his tea, willing the pain in his throat to go away. 

He's been up less than an hour when he approaches Tilly, who's sat at one of their tables, looking over a map. "Miss Tilly."

Tilly looks up at him and gives him a warm smile. "Hello, Arthur."

"Mind if I join ya?"

"No, not at all, please do." She says. Arthur sits across from her. 

"So, where are you headed?"

"I ain't too sure just yet." She replies. "I was thinkin' Saint Denis; I hate cities, but it'll be easier to blend in with the crowd there."

"That's smart," Arthur replies. 

"I'm leavin' tonight. So's Lenny and Kieran, I think." She continues, then sighs. "I can't believe it's over, after all them years."

"I'm right there with ya."

Tilly gives him a sad look. "You been runnin' with Hosea and Dutch a lot longer than I have. Longer than anyone else has. This can't be easy for you."

"Ain't much that's real easy for me no more," Arthur replies, his tone as sad as she looks. She looks back down at the map. 

"Arthur, you… You always been like a brother to me." She admits. "I remember the first time I met you. All big and angry looking at the surface level, but your eyes were sad."

"I remember it, too," Arthur replies. "'Nd you've always been like a sister to me."

Tilly looks back up from the map, reaching across the table to put her hand on his. "I love you, Arthur. Thank you, for being such a good brother."

"You're welcome, Miss Tilly. I love you, too. Thank you, for being a great sister. I hope you live a good, long life."

She smiles sadly at him once more, tears pooling in her eyes that she dabs with her free hand as she gives Arthur's a squeeze. He smiles back at her. Turning his hand so his palm's against hers, their fingers intertwine and Tilly rubs her thumb over his knuckles a few times soothingly. 

It's late in the afternoon when Arthur hears hoofs from somewhere outside his tent, and then a familiar voice calls out. "Arthur!" It's John. 

Arthur is just barely able to pull himself out of his cot, and he hopes to everything holy he got all the blood off his lips and chin. And that he doesn't cough. Or, if he does, that he doesn't cough on or even close to near Mary, and that it waits until after he's broken the news to her. Assuming John managed to bring Mary with him. 

This ain't gonna be easy, he already knows it. 

As he's walking towards them, Mary hops off Old Boy before John even brings them to a stop. She gathers her skirts as she runs to meet Arthur in the middle. "John told me something was wrong, we came as quickly as we could." She says as she approaches him. She stops only a few feet away as the sight of Arthur seems to register. She starts toward him a little quicker, cupping his face in her hands. 

"Hello, Mary." Arthur greets her, his voice rough from all the coughing and hacking he did about ten minutes earlier. 

"Arthur, what's wrong?" She asks, and the concern in her voice makes Arthur's soul ache. What's left of it, anyway. "You look horrible…"

Arthur looks down at his boots, guilt gnawing at him, knowing that if she was here, it means she still cares. And if she cares, what he was going to tell her very well might break her heart all over again. He's already broken her heart a few times now, as she has his. 

"I gotta tell you something. Come on." He says. She pulls her hands away from him, and he leads Mary to his tent, where they sit on his cot. He pushes the coughs he can feel threatening to escape him down. Now ain't the time. 

For a long moment, he almost decides against telling her. But it's too late. She's here, she can see something's wrong. Can probably hear him struggling for air, he sure can. So, Arthur gathers his courage, takes her hands in his. "Mary…" He says, staring into her doe-brown eyes. "I'm… I'm dying."

She gasps, recoiling a bit. "What? Why?" She asks a little hysterically. 

"The reason you didn't hear back from me after we last saw each other is cuz some of us got stranded on a tropical island after we robbed the bank." He starts explaining. She's clearly confused, but not shocked. He and everyone else in the gang had always had a knack for getting into the strangest mishaps. "We got back after a few weeks, and I was on my way to help Hosea and our friend, Mrs. Adler, come up with a way to spring John from prison. But before I could get where we was meeting, I collapsed in the street. Some feller found me, took me to the doctor, and… I'm real sick."

She looks down, and Arthur can see her eyes glossing over with tears. "How…?" She asks quietly, her voice quivering along with her bottom lip.

Arthur hangs his head in shame. "Few months ago, 'roundabout when I helped you get Jaime back home, I beat up a feller who owed us some money. He coughed in my face. I didn't think much of it at the time… Even though he died, not long after."

"... What is it…?"

"Tuberculosis." He tells her quietly. The tears start spilling down her cheeks and she pulls her hands from his, cupping her mouth. "I'm… Real sorry, Mary. It'd be better for you if you wouldn't know. But I wanted to see you again…"

Mary starts sobbing, and Arthur pulls her close, resting his head on hers. "Oh, you fool..." She wails, pressing herself up against him. 

"I'm so sorry, Mary..." He apologizes again, squeezing her tighter. "I shoulda ran away with you years ago when I had the chance…"

Mary sobs, whimpers, and sniffles until she runs out of tears. Sadie, bless her, brings them both some water as soon as Mary's stopped crying, and they both thank her before she's off again, likely helping with the few chores left now that Arthur can't do anymore. Probably wouldn't be allowed to do even if he could. Miss Grimshaw was likely to start scolding him sometime soon about getting out of bed. 

"Oh, Arthur…" Mary whines again. "I told you this way of living would get you killed one day…"

"You did," Arthur says. He'd always thought it'd be a bullet or noose that did him in, but the fact of the matter still remained. "You were right. I was just too much of a goddamn fool to see it…"

"I'm staying with you." She says determinedly. "I'll be here, until… Until the very end…"

"That ain't a good idea," Arthur says. "We have no idea if we lost the Pinkertons on our tail. They could show up at any moment. I don't want anything to happen to you…"

"I'm staying." She repeats. It's clearly not up for debate. Mary had always been strong-willed, always had done whatever she wanted. Arthur admires that. If she hadn't been brought up the way she was, in the gilded cage of society, she may have run away with him, instead. Not that it would have been a very good idea, as he was proving with his current state. "Maybe that makes me a fool, too. But I ain't leavin' you."

The rest of the day was slow and quiet. Everyone panics a little every time Arthur coughs. Hosea and Susan make him some more tea when he runs out. Mary dabs away the blood on his face, holding him flush against her as he hacks uncontrollably. She tries to convince him to get some of his supper down, to no avail. Tilly, Kieran, and Lenny pack their stuff with sad looks on their faces. 

Eventually, they were getting ready to leave, traveling together at least for the time being. He says his goodbyes to them, hugs Tilly tightly for a long while before she mounts up behind Kieran on Branwen, Lenny hops on Maggie, and the three leave. The only horses left at the hitching posts now are Bob, The Count, Silver Dollar, Old Boy, and Taima. The last time there were this few horses in their camp, it was only him, Hosea, Bessie, Dutch, and Susan. It feels like a lifetime ago. Maybe it very well is. He isn't the same person he was back then. 

Arthur thinks back to those first few years again, while he and Mary sit cuddled together by the campfire, a blanket wrapped around them both as Hosea and Dutch grimly discuss their plans to go to California. He remembers so clearly the night Hosea and Dutch picked him up, saved him. Gave him a home, and clothes, and food, and love. Gave him a chance. He remembers a few weeks after he joined them, when he turned fifteen, and three practically strangers made a bigger deal out of his birthday than his own father ever had. 

It hurts, makes his chest ache more than it already does. Hosea and Dutch are only a few feet away in reality, but it feels like hundreds of miles. They'd been so close back then, but the drama of the past few months has made the three of them drift apart from each other. Arthur thinks back on all them years, when they were tight-knit, when they were unshaken. And now, their relationship will end strained. Because there isn't enough time left for Arthur for everything to go back to normal, assuming it ever could in the first place. 

There's no fixing it entirely anymore, even if he weren't dying, Arthur reckons. Dutch has done too many things for Arthur, and maybe even Hosea, to ever fully trust or forgive him again, love him though they do. Made so many foolish decisions that could have been the end of any or all of them. Shit, Eagle Flies was dead from saving Arthur's life after Dutch left him at the oil factory. The grief on Chief Rains Fall's face will be with Arthur when he dies. 

As would the sight of that renegade soldier, Winton Holmes, and his native wife. Watching Bessie die, just as helpless to do anything about it as everyone else was to do anything for him, now. Coming across Eliza and Isaac's graves. Witnessing his father get shot in the head. Seeing his mother, who had been so vibrant and full of life, wither away. Losing Copper to old age, though the dog had never lost the puppy in him. Watching John swing by his neck fourteen years ago, before he, Hosea and Dutch had saved him. The pathetic, pained look Thomas Downes gave him as Arthur beat him half to death, over a couple dollars. Charlie, and Boadecia, both lost to accidents he more than likely could have prevented. 

What a horrible, no good fool he's been. He's caused more pain and suffering than he cares to think about, yet all of it comes flooding back to him. Especially poor Edith and Archie Downes, being forced to leave their home with nothing. Edith, having to turn to prostitution. Archie, with no real choice than to work in the dangerous mines, tormented by the bigger fellers that worked there, too, for seemingly no good reason whatsoever. Probably struggling to stay afloat those few months after Arthur's fists and the illness killed Thomas. All the families he's torn apart, the lives he's ruined, the trouble and anguish he's caused, the people he's betrayed, gotten hurt, and lied to; all because of some damn code that probably weren't ever real, to begin with. 

Yet, there were still a whole lot of people he had met who didn't view him as horribly as he did himself. Sean, just yesterday, saying,  _ "You ain't nearly as bad a person as you seem ta think you are." _ , in his Irish drawl that Arthur was beginning to miss. Charlotte Balfour, the widow he taught to hunt, so she could survive on her own. Hamish Sinclair, the veteran with one leg. Mickey, the 'veteran' with one arm from Valentine, strange feller as he was. Black Belle, whom he helped fight off all them bounty hunters after her. That widow, Mrs. Londonderry, only after he absolved Strauss' debt. Brother Dorkins and Sister Caulderon from Saint Denis. Rains Fall. Captain Monroe. Penelope Braithwaite. Beau Grey. Albert Mason, the photographer. Charles Chàteney, the perverted, cross-dressing, adultering artist. Abigail, Jack. Their Charles, and Sadie. Hosea, Dutch, Susan, and John. Tilly, Lenny, Kieran, Mary-Beth, Karen. All them strangers he'd helped in one way or another. Mary, to a certain extent. She must think there's at least a small amount of good in him to have come all this way. She very well could have turned up her nose at John when he got there, telling him she wanted nothing more to do with that awful Arthur Morgan.

_ 'There's a good man within you, Arthur. But he is wrestling with a giant. And the giant, wins, time and again.' _

She said in that same letter later that she wanted to be free of him, not for lack of loving him, but for all the pain they caused each other over the years, and now he's gone and dragged her into the worst kind of heartache imaginable. And yet, she has no plans of leaving until after the worst happens. 

If only he'd stopped being such a blustering fool a long time ago. He and Mary could be wed, maybe have had a family. He wouldn't be dying. He wouldn't have had to watch people he cares about die or nearly die several times over the past twenty years or so. Wouldn't have spent the last two decades sleeping with one eye open, constantly running away from or fighting something or another. Could have lived to a ripe old age, or at least died for a better cause. 

As it stands, he was still a blustering fool, clearly as he sees his life, now that it's too late. This is just karma. The universe's way of making sure he can't do any more harm than he already has. He hopes it doesn't catch up with the others, that they're given a chance for redemption, and long, fulfilling lives. He had helped a few people, being as that was all he had ever really wanted, more so than usual after he found out he was dying; but he was sure his sins greatly overshadow any kinda good he may have accomplished. 

The only things he really knows for sure anymore is that he's a fool, and his demise is mostly his fault, partly Dutch's, partly that damn snake, Micah's. Wouldn't have ever been near that part of the country if his ferry job in Blackwater hadn't gone so horribly awry. And he also knows that the world will probably be better off without him, as it is without his father here, as well.

After a hacking fit that lasts so long that Arthur's almost sure it'll be his last, the one to finally kill him, he gets shooed off to bed by Miss Grimshaw. Hosea makes him more tea and dabs the sweat from his brow as he tucks Arthur in tight with plenty of blankets to try to ward off the ice in his bones. Sadie easily agrees to share her tent with Mary, as no one wants her too close to Arthur, him included, should he start coughing in the middle of the night. Arthur hopes Sadie can bring Mary some comfort in his place. He also hopes she doesn't mind sleeping outside too much. 

At first, he thinks the horse-shit way he's feeling will keep him up all night; but exhaustion soon wins over malaise, and Arthur drifts to sleep, somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya everyone. 
> 
> Soooo, bringing Mary into this whole thing was an impulsive desicion I made last chapter, and here I deliver. Having her there kinda waters down some of Arthur's other interactions, noteably with Kieran and Lenny, but I couldn't really help for it. 
> 
> Because of Mary, I may have to extend this story to five chapters in order to fit in everything I want in a way that flows right. Who knows? ㄟ(UwU)ㄏ  
> I sure as shit don't know anything lmao
> 
> Anyway, I hope you're enjoying it so far! Please leave a kudos and a comment if you haven't already! The next and maybe possibly final chapter should be out sometime soon, maybe tomorrow, so make sure to sMASH THAT SUBSCRIBE BUTTON and check your email as frequently as I check my inbox for all your lovely comments xDD
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


	4. the building of a shrine, only just to burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we near the end of this story, I wanna thank everyone who's read, left a comment or kudos or both. I'm sorry there's so many tears to be had but at the same time I'm not >:3 xD
> 
> Please enjoy this chapter as much as you're able to through the sorrow.

It's been a few days since Mary arrived, and Arthur can tell he doesn't have much longer. 

His time is mostly spent in his tent now, coughing and wheezing and spitting up blood. Shivering, sweating, burning up with fever. Eating as much as he's able to. Drinking more tea than he can ever remember drinking before in his life. Being in more agony, more exhausted, than he can ever remember in his life. 

Whenever Miss Grimshaw lays off trying to keep him in bed (almost never), he sits at the campfire with her, Sadie, Mary, when he's not out hunting, Charles, Hosea, Dutch, and John. They all mostly enjoy each other's company silently, as much as any of them can enjoy anything, the way things are. Dutch is real quiet, even more so than Charles, sometimes, and it's concerning. Arthur can practically see the storm in his mentor's mind behind his dark eyes, unfocused more often than not. 

He awakes on the seventh day since the battle at Beaver Hollow barely able to breathe. Every ragged inhale and exhale feels like a war, and it's one he doesn't particularly look forward to continuing to fight, considering he's already lost. He's jonesing for a cigarette something awful, has been for more than a week, but it just makes things worse for him. So does drinking liquor. So, he doesn't do either. 

More often than not, there's someone sitting in the chair that's been put next to his cot when he wakes. This morning, it's Miss Grimshaw. As Arthur opens his eyes for the day- another war he's losing- she gives him a sad smile. "Morning, Arthur." She says sweetly, this situation having brought out the more nurturing side of her that Arthur saw very rarely. Before all this, anyway. "How did you sleep, honey?"

"Fine, I guess." Arthur rasps, his torn up throat protesting against every word. The way she calls him 'honey' reminds him of Bessie. He wonders idly if he'll see her when he dies if they'll be in the afterlife together. Again, if there's an afterlife. "Where's Dutch and Hosea?"

"Hosea's by the fire. Dutch ain't up yet." Susan answers. "You should stay in bed, though. You need rest."

"Gonna die whether I rest or not." He reminds her morbidly, and if he weren't dying, she probably would have cuffed him upside the head. She  _ does _ give him a stern frown. He sighs, and nearly chokes on that too, breath stuttering. "Please lemme get up, Susan." 

She crosses her arms and seems to consider it for a moment before saying, "Alright, just… Take it easy."

"Can't really do anything else," Arthur mumbles as he strains to push himself out of his cot. There's a deep-set tiredness in his very being now.  _ Everything _ is a struggle. Even just keeping his eyes open. He's slipping away, further every second… in the seconds of darkness he's unable to open his eyes, he sees antlers. Been seeing stags for weeks now. Maybe longer. 

He remembers when he was younger, constantly complaining to Dutch or Hosea about how hard it was to breathe in the summertime, the air muggy, and stick, and thick. Arthur clearly didn't know shit about 'hard to breathe' back then, because if that was his definition, then he was a fool.  _ Well, already knew that _ . 

It's early in the morning, and a part of Arthur wishes he could sleep in. Another part of him doesn't, because, at some point, he may go to sleep and just not wake up. Arthur's not entirely ready for that yet, not ready for death's cold embrace; despite the fact, he's thought several times about whipping out a revolver and putting himself out of his own misery. Maybe only half-jokingly. 

There's two percolators kept by the fire at all times now, one for coffee, the other for tea. Hosea must have heard Arthur was awake because as Arthur approaches the older man, his mentor holds a cup towards him. "Morning, son."

'Mornin' Hosea." Arthur replies, his voice still rough. He tries to clear his throat as he accepts the cup with a few rogue coughs, making sure to turn his head so none of the germs get on Hosea. He doesn't want him to get sick. The older man already has lung issues, he don't need goddamn tuberculosis on top of it. "Thank you."

"No problem," Hosea replies as he picks up his own cup and takes a few sips of his coffee. Arthur sits next to him at the fire. The warmth of it doesn't do much to help him the past few days, and he reckons it probably won't for the remainder of his short time left on this cruel plane of existence. 

Arthur looks around, noticing the camp mostly empty. Susan is tending to Silver Dollar and The Count, Dutch is still in bed, but there's no sign of Sadie, Mary, Charles or John. "Where's everyone else?"

"Mrs. Adler and Mr. Smith went out huntin'. John left to go check in on Abigail and Jack. Mrs. Linton and Dutch are still asleep." Hosea answers. Arthur nods a little, looking over at Sadie's tent, just now noticing Mary's sleeping form on the ground. He feels bad, not being able to share his cot with her, but he'd feel even worse if he got her sick. So, the ground, it is.

She hasn't seemed to mind sleeping in the dirt too much. Mary's biggest issue with being here, surrounded by a bunch of former outlaws, is Arthur's deteriorating health (well, not health, as such, because he doesn't have that anymore, hasn't for a while now; more like his deteriorating life-force, or whatever). He can't imagine it's easy for her, or really any of the others to watch him slowly fade the way he is. 

He imagines it's a lot worse for Hosea, Dutch, and Susan than anyone else. Save for himself, of course. 

He was saved by Hosea and Dutch on a night in early June back in '78. Twenty-one years ago. Susan joined them a little over a year later when he was sixteen. The three of them have been a constant in Arthur's life for so long now, and he's been a constant in theirs. They were family, had lived, ate, drank, fought, celebrated and mourned together for so long now that Arthur can hardly remember what it was like before it became that way. 

They'd all probably expected Arthur to outlive them, even Dutch and Miss Grimshaw who weren't a decade older than him. But, here they were. Hosea's nearing seventy-three years old and still kicking, a rarity in and of itself, especially in their former line of work, whilst Arthur's dying at thirty-six. He hates himself for being a little bitter about it, love Hosea and wish him many more happy years on this Earth as he does. 

And again, he's not dying from a gunshot or stab wound, nor a California collar like he'd always thought he would. Instead, he's terminally ill, and would otherwise be fine if he weren't. He'd still able to flee, or shoot, or talk his way out of anything. 

Maybe it's for the best, though. His impending doom is probably one of the main reasons Dutch agreed to break the gang up, and Lord knows that  _ needed _ to happen. If Arthur weren't dying right now, they'd likely still be foolishly clinging to those ideas that don't work anymore, still going steadily towards their own downfalls and tragedies. Lambs to the slaughter, one at a time, picked clean from existence. 

Arthur's never really considered himself a martyr, and still doesn't now, quite, but if his own demise is what it takes to save everyone else, then it's worth it. He just wishes it'd be over already, or that he weren't suffering as badly. 

But it's worth it. They couldn't save Mac, Davey, Jenny, Bessie, Annabel, or any of the others that Arthur's seen fell in the last decade, but a good deal of them are making it out. Jack's gonna get to grow up normally. None of them will have to run anymore or sleep in the dirt. They'll have real lives, and boring as it was, they'd be safe. Arthur took solace in that. 

Yet, a more selfish part of him wishes he'd gotten that chance, too. Here they were,  _ finally _ giving up the outlaw life, and it was too late for him to enjoy it. He no longer had the time to get wed, whether it be to Mary or any other woman for that matter. Couldn't try to be a father again, if he ever could have worked up the courage. Wouldn't see the new century, or even close to the end of this one. Would never know what it was like to have an honest job, or a good life- well, a good man's life.

This was the legacy he was leaving behind. Arthur Morgan, dastardly criminal. He had accomplished nothing but breaking hearts, bones, and laws.

~~~~~~~

Arthur's breathing is slowing to a crawl. 

He notices the change as soon as he wakes up. He coughs and sputters a few times, and though it would usually turn into a hacking fit, he supposes he doesn't have the lung power for that anymore. There's more blood than ever before, which he weakly spits into the grass next to his cot. No one's in the chair next to him this morning, but he can hear quick footsteps making their way over to his tent, likely having heard his gasping wheezes for air. "Arthur!" Hosea exclaims as he rushes to Arthur's side, sitting on the cot and taking one of Arthur's hands in his. Arthur breathes as best he can, the warmth of his surrogate father's hand feeling nice against his own ice-cold one. 

"Hosea." He rasps the older man's name. 

Hosea reaches over into the bowl of water they have on Arthur's table, squeezes the excess out of the rag before dabbing away the sweat from Arthur's forehead and the blood on his lips. "I'm here, son, don't worry." The older man says. 

"Dutch…?" He asks weakly. They haven't spoken very much since the night of the battle at Beaver Hollow. 

"In his tent, I think," Hosea replies. "Should I go get him?" Arthur just shakes his head as much as he can, don't wanna admit that he doesn't want him to leave. So instead, apparently reading Arthur loud and clear, Hosea turns his head, calls, "Susan!"

Miss Grimshaw rushes over in the way they all have the past week. "Hosea?" She asks with concern. 

"Get Dutch, please." He asks of her. She nods, turns, and starts towards Dutch's tent. 

John's heard the commotion and briskly makes his way over. "Arthur, are you okay?"

"No." He admits. 

Then Charles, Sadie, and Mary hurry over, stopping at the end of his cot, where his tent opens up. None of them say anything; Mary starts to sob like she's been doing an awful lot of this week and probably will for weeks or months to come. She rests her head on Sadie's shoulder, and the rougher woman wraps her arms around Mary. Charles is just as speechless as ever, but he looks rather sad. Arthur can see the depressed resignation in the other man's eyes. He knows just as well as Arthur that this is it- he's arrived at death's door and will be forced to step through at any moment. 

"I'm scared..." Arthur admits quietly, voice breaking. He doesn't know when he closed his eyes, but he can feel tears welling up in them regardless. He doesn't have the strength to actually cry. 

"I know, son..." Hosea says, giving Arthur's hand a firm squeeze. Arthur squeezes back weakly. "We're here… We ain't gonna leave you…"

A ghost of the older man's words from two decades ago whispers to Arthur,  _ "I think I speak for everyone here when I say that we'd rather throw ourselves off the highest mountain than leave you behind." _ And then,  _ "I promise, as long as you need us, we'll be here for you." _

Another few coughs and sputters escape, Arthur just about suffocating on blood and air he feels like he isn't getting. Hosea sits him up frantically and helps Arthur lean over the side of his cot to spit the blood out. He lets Arthur lean against him, head lolling onto Hosea's chest involuntarily. Breathe in, sharp daggers in his chest that makes his face twist in pain. Breathe out, whatever strength he has left disappearing with every struggling gasp. He shivers seemingly endlessly.  _ So cold _ … 

Hosea cards his fingers through Arthur's hair, wrapping an arm around Arthur and holding him tightly. Arthur leans further into Hosea's chest, opening his eyes as much as he can as he hears a pair of footsteps headed towards his tent. 

Susan sits on the chair by the end of Arthur's cot, and Dutch slowly makes his way in, sitting on the edge of his cot like Hosea had only minutes before. Like Hosea, he takes one of Arthur's hands in his, squeezing tightly. Arthur can't muster the energy to return the gesture for him. Dutch's eyes are glassed over. "Dutch…"

"I'm here, Arthur…" His other surrogate father assures him brokenly, tears spilling down his cheeks. 

It takes more exertion than it should have, but Arthur reaches and pulls his pocket watch out, before placing it in Dutch's free hand. Dutch looks down at the simple trinket and runs his thumb over the front of it. It's scuffed and scratched in some places from twenty-one years of use, but the 'A' engraved into it is still there. "Here." Arthur rasps. 

Dutch gave him that pocket watch on his fifteenth birthday. Naturally, it makes the tears flow faster, and Dutch holds the watch to his chest as he sobs. "Oh, Arthur…"

"John…" 

"Right here, brother," John replies quietly. 

"My hat, and my satchel..." He slowly points up where the worn leather hat and bag hang on one of the nails holding Lyle's photo up. John hesitates for a moment before reaching over and grabbing them. "Yours now, brother…"

John looks down at it, then back at Arthur, a grim look on his face as he nods. "...Thank you, Arthur…" 

He makes an effort to reach towards the flower in a jar on his desk, but can't. "What is it, son...?" Dutch asks desolately. 

"Flower..." Arthur says, gesturing towards it. "Susan."

With tears still falling from his eyes, Dutch sets the pocket watch in his lap and picks the flower in a jar up, turns slightly and hands it to Susan who cries loudly. "I'll treasure it for the rest of my days..." She weeps.

_ It's so hard to breathe… _ damn near impossible to keep his eyes open. "Hosea…" He manages just above a whisper. "Picture 'f us three, on th' wall there…"

John carefully takes the picture down and passes it to Hosea, still holding Arthur tight. "I'll keep it with me, always…" His older mentor says softly from behind him. "Thank you, son…"

Breathe in... Breathe out… "... Mary…"

Mary pulls herself away from Sadie and has to squeeze herself into the tent, crowded as it is, though no one minds. "I'm here, Arthur…" She whimpers, leaning down and cupping his face in her hands. 

"I… love you…" Arthur wheezes between rough breaths. 

"I love you too, Arthur…" She sobs, planting a long kiss on his cheek. 

"I love all o' you…" He adds. "Thank…" Breathe in…. "you…" Breathe out…. 

"We all love you, too, Arthur," Hosea says mournfully, voice shaking. 

"We do, son." Dutch agrees through his tears, squeezing Arthur's hand a little tighter. "More'n all the riches in the world…"

Arthur wheezes out a soft, relieved laugh, followed by more sputtering coughs. Breathe in…... Breathe out……….. A golden stag with majestic antlers behind his closing eyes. Breathe in…… Breathe out…… Chirping birds and chittering squirrels, the soft sobs of his family, the warmth of Hosea and Dutch… Breathe in…… Breathe out……… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue will be out tomorrow, please stick around for the end of this tale I've had to tell you. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, please leave a kudos and a comment if you haven't already, and stay safe <3


	5. shine bright into darkness

John thinks they're doing well.

It's been almost a year since the gang broke up. John works as a hired gun under the name of Jim Milton, and Abigail is a seamstress. Jack's going to school and has friends now. Miss Grimshaw is there with them, and she takes care of Jack and helps him with his lessons while John and Abigail work. When he's not doing school work, Jack plays with Cain. All things considered, it could be a lot worse. 

He still keeps in touch with everyone, or anyone he can find to keep in touch with, anyway. He ran into Mary-Beth in Valentine only a month after everything ended. She's a writer now, silly romance books, but they make her happy, and it helps keep food on the table. John's glad for her. Tilly's in Saint Denis, Kieran's with Mary-Beth and he works as a stable boy. Not the most glamorous life, but John remembered Kieran always loved all the horses. 

Mary-Beth ran into Karen, and the other woman had stopped hitting the bottle so hard. That's good. John was pretty sure it'd be the liquor that killed her, as soon as she left and there was no longer a voice of reason at her side. 

Lenny Summers is a tutor, like his pa was, in Strawberry. Sean is a farmhand in the heart of Lemoyne. Pearson is running the general store in Rhodes. Sadie is a bounty hunter, and she comes to visit them often. Charles went to Canada, in search of a purer existence than whatever America has to offer, or something like that- not in as many words of course, but John kind of understood what he meant, he thinks. John ran into Uncle a few months ago, and unfortunately brought him home- well, more like Uncle followed him home and John doesn't have the heart to kick him out. He seems to be a constant reminder that John won't ever fully outrun his sins.

Hosea and Dutch had gone to California like they'd always wanted, gotten themselves a ranch after a few months of odd jobs of the legal sort, and had written often. Though, unfortunately, Hosea passed about two weeks ago. His body just didn't work very well in his old age anymore. He passed peacefully in his sleep, and now Dutch was on his own in the too-empty ranch house, as he put it in his letter. Dutch had buried Hosea with that photo. It never left his front pocket. 

He doesn't know where Bill, Javier, Trelawney, Strauss, Molly, or the Reverend are. He supposes it don't matter too much. John hopes they're okay, nonetheless. 

Micah's dead. John opens the newspaper, and it's the first thing he sees. ' _ NOTORIOUS OUTLAW, MICAH BELL III, MEETS HIS MAKER' _ , the headline reads in all caps. Apparently, the law found him in his camp, swinging from a noose. No signs of a struggle, or any other presence in the area, so it was ruled a suicide. Good riddance, John says. He don't care too much if that bastard was hung, or hung himself, long as he's dead. A vengeful part of him that he'll also never outrun wishes he'd been the one to end the man who just about pulled their family apart, but he's dead, which means he can't do any harm to no one no more. So it's fine. He still envisions what it might have felt like to empty his gun into the fucker's face. 

He's not expecting grief to jump up on him so suddenly, but then he checks the date on the newspaper. June twenty-second, 1900.

It's Arthur's birthday. Or, would be, if Arthur were here anymore.

John can count on one hand the amount of times Arthur's been mentioned since his passing last year, near the tail end of September. It hurts to think about him, but John did constantly. All the times Arthur was saving his fool ass whenever John would get in way over his head, comforting each other when Bessie, the closest thing either of them had to a mother, died. Drinking, laughing, singing together. When he was real young, and Arthur would let John snuggle up next to him to keep the nightmares at bay. Spending so many hours behind the saddle with him, sitting next to each other at the fire, stealing his journal, and his hat, and just generally being a nuisance. Fighting together, and with each other. Running together. 

John had never thought Arthur would go out the way he had. He always thought the older man would go out fighting- a lawman, a rival gang member, a bounty hunter, some big, bad beast, like a bear, or a cougar, or a wolf- and that he'd fight hard. He supposes he did, in the end, but it was an enemy he didn't even have a chance against. Doomed from the start. Arthur always seemed so unshaken, a force to be reckoned with. The reminder that he was just as mortal and vulnerable as the rest of them sat sourly with John. He'd always seen Arthur as unmoving, unbothered by anything, and then he got sick, and now he's dead. 

Weren't ever no headline about Arthur in the paper. He's equal parts glad, and equal parts bitter about that. Micah gets to go out with a whole big deal made of it, while Arthur gets to fade out of history, probably not even a foot-note in the future lessons. Though, maybe it's better that way. Arthur never wanted fame. 

He just wanted to live. Thirty-six years, and he never really got to. 

Susan comes into the kitchen wearing all black. Even her makeup is darker than usual. The only way she could look more like a grieving mother is if she was wearing a black veil over her face. 

She looks absolutely as miserable as John feels right now. 

"Morning, Susan," John says to her. Not 'good morning', because they both clearly know it ain't. 

"Hello, John." She replies quietly. She sits at the table across from him, and John wonders if he should share the news with her. Today, the wound is as fresh as when it was made. He impulsively decides to slide the newspaper to her, and she glances at it for a few moments, before her expression hardens into that weird mix of loathing and relief that John experienced not two minutes earlier. "Good." She declares with a bit of a growl. "Never liked that man. Shoulda blew a hole in him with a shotgun the moment Dutch brought him into camp."

John lets out a sigh, and says grimly, "Let's hope karma skips the rest of us."

Abigail wakes in dark attire, too. Jack is blissfully unaware, while Uncle is just ignorantly so, up until John shows him the date. 

John, Abigail, and Susan all mostly wordlessly agree to go visit Arthur's grave. John dresses in his own shades of black, feeling it appropriate, and they mount up, leaving Jack with Uncle. He doesn't have much faith in the older man, but he trusts him with his child for a few hours, at least. He's sure they'll be fine, there's never much drama 'round where they live. The journey is a bit too far of a ride for Jack, and the boy was still hurting from Arthur's passing real bad, too. He should have room to process those feelings, young as he is. It's a lot for a small child's brain. He knows that from experience. They'll take him when he's older if he wants. 

The three of them ride at a leisurely enough pace, if not a little quicker. It's already noon, and Arthur's grave is about a thirty-mile ride away. Surely, they make their way there by about the middle of the afternoon. They all dismount and walk over, John pulling the gift given to him of worn black leather and frayed tan rope from his saddlebag beforehand. 

None of them speak for several minutes. Abigail and Susan are crying silently, and John's just standing there. The gifted hat against his chest, staring down at the ornate cross that heads where they buried him not even a year ago. 

_ 'BLESSED ARE THOSE WHO HUNGER AND THIRST FOR RIGHTEOUSNESS' _ , it reads on a band around the cross, with the straight part of it reading,  _ 'ARTHUR MORGAN _

_ 6-22-1863 - 9-27-1899' _

Not even five minutes later, they hear hoofbeats. The three of them turn their head, and there, on Bob, are Sadie and Mary. Sadie had been the one to take her home after the funeral. They're also dressed in black, though Sadie wears pants and Mary, a dress. 

They dismount and walk over as well, fresh tears running down Mary's face while Sadie stands there looking as numb as John feels. 

"It ain't fair." Abigail declares quietly and painfully with a sniffle after another few long moments of silence stretches between the five of them. 

"No," Mary agrees with a sob, and Sadie lets her cry on her shoulder. "it ain't..."

"He'd be thirty-seven today..." Susan laments as she dabs tears away with a hanky. 

"You read the paper this morning, John?" Sadie asks gently as she rubs Mary's back. 

"Yeah." John finally speaks up. Abigail looks at them all puzzled. 

"Mr. Bell is dead," Susan tells her, seeming as pleased as she was when she found out this morning, though behind the cover of their current sorrow. 

"Good." Abigail grits out with another sniff. "I hope he's burning in Hell."

Another few minutes pass, and then, more hoofbeats. The group turns to see who's riding up to them now, and the bright white horse comes into view before the rider does. 

Dutch. 

The older man climbs down from The Count slowly, his head hung as he approaches the grave. He, too, takes his hat off and rests it against his chest, though extra tears gather in his eyes at the sight of the specific fading leather in John's hands.

Dutch stops for a moment, then his legs buckle, and he's kneeling in the dirt in front of Arthur's grave. He slumps, not having the will to hold himself as tall as he once would, and Susan leans down, resting her hands on his shoulders. She did the same thing when Annabel died. 

It was Hosea who comforted Dutch, and vice-versa at Arthur's funeral last September. The men cried, and cried, and cried for so long… John still stood there frozen. 

"Oh, Arthur…" Dutch wails as he clutches his fedora tightly, knuckles turning white from the pressure. Another thing John can count on one hand, the number of times Dutch has cried, in front of him anyway. He shed a few tears with Hosea when Bessie passed, with Arthur, when his child and the boy's mother were murdered, when Annabel died, and the funeral last year. This makes five. Five times, in a decade and a half. 

"Wasn't nothing we could do." Susan tries to reassure him, even as her voice quivers and there's a whine behind it. 

"I was such a fool..." Dutch remorses, as he had many times last September as he and Hosea cried on each other. Between their broken sobs, they expressed their many regrets. Hosea, about ever even dragging Arthur into the chaos they caused. Dutch, for being a stupid fool and ever robbing that damn boat. For leaving him behind at the oil factory. Both of them, for not noticing anything wrong sooner. Arthur withered away in front of them, all of them, and they all never noticed until it was much, much too late to do anything about it. Even too late to try and give Arthur a little more time. 

Recalling the sight of Arthur's face pinched in agony, even while resting, makes John think his brother wouldn't have wanted too much more time, anyway. He remembers, also, the way Arthur's expression had gone slack as he breathed his last raspy wheeze, eyes sliding closed slowly as though he were falling asleep. Finally at peace, no longer suffering. 

Yet another thing John can count on one hand. The number of times he'd cried. When he lost his pa, when Bessie and Annabel died, and the day of Arthur's passing. He left after they buried and mourned him, and John camped by himself that night, sobbing his eyes out until he ran out of tears. Then he drank half a bottle of whiskey and passed out til noon. 

It  _ hurts _ . John feels lost without him here. There's so many things he wishes he said to Arthur while he was still here. So many things he wishes he would and wouldn't have done. 

No one says anything for a while. Abigail, Mary, and Dutch wail, Sadie and Susan mourn quietly, and John still stands there like a fool, eyes on the pink and orange flowers that adorn Arthur's grave. 

After the crying's died down for a few minutes, they all hear a rustle in the woods. Their heads snap towards the sound of breaking twigs, and from the brush, emerges a majestic stag with more golden than typically light brown fur, followed shortly after by an old silver fox. 

The five of them look back and forth between each other and the pair of gentle beasts for a few seconds as it registers that it has to be real if they're all seeing them. Then, without any warning, the animals flee back into the trees. 

They don't talk about it, just gape at each other and dance around the subject once the five of them part their respective ways close to sundown. Susan and Abigail head out, and John tells them he'll be home tomorrow. Sadie and Mary leave a few minutes later, and then it's just him and Dutch. Dutch has sunken in on himself again, chin on his chest as the waterworks start back up again. 

John walks over and kneels on the ground next to him. Dutch leans against John, and he wraps an arm around Dutch in a half-hug. "I miss him, son…" Dutch says with an ache in his heart that shines through his words. "Him and Hosea... Every goddamn day..."

"I miss them, too…" John says quietly. 

He and Dutch stay there until the sun is dipping below the horizon. Then they begrudgingly leave and set camp for the night not too far from there. John pulls out a bottle of whiskey and passes the bottle between him and his mentor until they've drained it. 

Eventually, John stumbles into his tent for the night. He curls up on the bedroll beneath him and sobs quietly into his hands, worn leather hat laying beside him. John cries until he can cry no more, and the exhaustion takes over. Luckily, he has no nightmares; Arthur ain't here to chase them away.

~~~~~~~~~

**_1903_ **

Abigail said yes. 

John proposed to her with the ring Arthur gave to Mary all them years ago. He felt a bit bad about it, but the letter Mary had sent Arthur just a few weeks before the gang dispersed said that she hoped Arthur found someone who could use it. And Arthur had given his things to John, in those last moments of his, knowing the ring and letter were still in there, so he hopes Arthur had meant for John to use it. 

So, he did. He rowed himself and Abigail out into the middle of a beautiful lake at sunset, when the sky was a gorgeous mix of purples, pinks, and orange, asked her to marry him, and she said yes. 

John wasn't sure why, but he wants to tell Arthur. So, he mounts up, and he rides to the man's grave. When he gets there, he dismounts, gives his horse, Rachel, a few pats and an apple before walking over to the grave. 

He kneels in front of the grave, worn leather and frayed rope held to his chest. "Hey, Arthur."

Arthur doesn't reply, because of course, he doesn't. He's a skeleton in the ground. John feels silly for continuing to talk, but he does, anyway. 

"I… Proposed to Abigail, with that ring you gave Mary." He tells Arthur. "She said yes. We're gonna get married next year." John continues with a small laugh. "Shoulda seen the look on her face when I pulled it out. She asked if I'd stolen it, and I told her no. Cuz, I think, or at least I hope, that you gave it to me for her. You always was sweet on her, and maybe you woulda made a better husband than I will. But I'm gonna try to make her real happy, for her sake, and the boy's, and maybe yours too, I guess. You always got real mad at me for treating her like shit- rightfully so. I don't do that crap anymore. Or at least, I think I don't."

He pauses, not sure what else to really say. "I took care of everything you didn't have the time to. All them strangers you was gonna help, and never finished doing so. Found entries about them in your journal, and didn't have too much else goin' on every now and then, so I did it. I know you always hated unfinished business, so… Yeah." He runs his fingers over the hat held to his chest. "I hope you don't mind that I read it. I mean, you gave it to me, and you ain't here for me to poke fun at you for it no more, so…"

John feels awkward. But he keeps talking. "I… I miss you, brother." He admits aloud. "You was always gettin' my fool ass outta trouble, for reasons I can't fully understand. Always so patient in that impatient way of yours. Past few years've been really rough without you here. I… Feel like I don't really know who I am, with you gone. I don't talk about you a whole lot, and neither does anyone else, really. Hurts too much, I guess. You went out in a real bad way. But I think about you, almost every single day. You and Hosea both."

He's considering just leaving then, but there's something else he has to tell his brother. Something he should have said five, ten, fifteen years ago. 

"One of the last things you said before you passed was that you loved us, and… I shoulda said it back, like Hosea, and Dutch and Mary did. Shoulda said it a million times before then, but I didn't, cuz I'm an idiot." John says with a sigh. "I did, though. I loved you, Arthur. Still do. You shouldn't have put up with me the way you had, but you did, anyway. I'm sorry I didn't say it to you when you were still here. I'm sorry that I hurt you, Abigail, Jack, Dutch, and Hosea, when I ran off the way I did. I was a fool. I guess I still am, some things never change. I never deserved a brother like you. You always called me the golden boy, but I always thought that was you."

John's about to say his final goodbyes when he hears the sound of a snapping twig. His hands fly to his guns immediately from years of instinct kicking in as he stands to his feet, looking into the trees with squinted eyes, waiting. He's thinking it was just a squirrel and that he's being too jumpy, when a familiar, majestic golden buck steps out of the forest, its impressive antlers reaching towards the heavens. 

John blinks his eyes a few times as he wonders again if the animal is real, but every time he reopens them, the stag is still there. So, he's either gone crazy, which wouldn't be surprising, given he was talking to a dead man not a minute earlier, or it's real. 

He's about to settle for the crazy idea, having a staring contest with an ethereal seeming golden buck, when the stag walks closer to him. John's stopped breathing entirely. He reaches a hand out to the stag gently, who doesn't flinch away like he already should have. John feels his hand come in contact with the stag's snout, and he pets the soft fur a few times slowly. It's almost enough to make John fully religious. 

"That you, Arthur...?" John asks quietly, despite being scared that talking would scare the stag off. 

The buck is unbothered, unshaken. He doesn't answer John with words, because of course, he don't, he's an animal. But John can almost hear Arthur's voice in his head as he stares into the stag's eyes, a weird shade of blue with flecks of green when usually, deer have brown eyes. 

_ "It's me." _ He can almost hear the stag replying in Arthur's voice, the smooth way it had been before the older man's throat was torn up by a constant barrage of desperate coughs and hacks, before it was raspy, shakey, and pained-sounding.

The buck pulls away from John's hand, and John's almost scared he'd done something to startle him, half expecting the creature to bound back into the forest. He doesn't. Instead, the stag noses at the leather hat on John's head. Arthur's voice continues to echo in his head.  _ "You ever gonna give that thing back?" _ The older man had asked several times more than a decade ago, whenever John would steal Arthur's hat, always and still too big for his head.  _ "It don't fit your scrawny noggin, boy. You need to grow some brains before it will. Assumin' you're even capable of growin' some brains." _

"Never fit you very well, either." John teases back lightly. The stag huffs hot breath at him, and John laughs quietly, even as his eyes begin to water. 

The sun is setting over the horizon, painting the golden buck's shiny fur pink and orange. He tilts his head down at John, and the younger man recognizes the gesture as the way Arthur used to tip his hat whenever he left camp. "Leavin' already?" John asks, and he swears he sees the stag nod at him. "Makes sense. You never did like stayin' in one spot for too long."

The buck closes the gap between them again, before licking John's cheek. 

"I love you, too, Arthur," John replies back, voice quivering. The stag turns and heads back into the forest slowly. "Goodbye, brother..."

And just like that, the stag disappears back into the trees. John raises his hand to where the deer's tongue had touched his cheek, to find it still wet. 

So, he was real. 

John wipes the tears from his eyes and gathers himself. He doesn't bother going back to the grave to say goodbye. He's convinced he just did, to the real deal. And so, John mounts up and heads back towards home, feeling a little less empty inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this fic! I had a lot of fun writing it, sad as it was, and I hope y'all enjoyed it too. 
> 
> Please leave a comment and a kudos if you haven't already, they really make my day. Also, please check out my main RDR2 fic, titled 'All Them Years'. 
> 
> Again, thanks! <3

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you cowbros enjoyed this fic. If you did, please leave a kudos and a comment. Thanks for reading, and please check out my main Early Van der Linde Gang story, titled 'All Them Years', if you haven't already. It mostly follows Arthur's POV from 1878-1899, and as of Friday, April 10th, 2020 (the day I'm writing this note) it's still being updated (usually weekly) because it's nowhere near finished. 
> 
> Again, thanks! And please stay safe out there.


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